


Just Tell Me Why

by cynosure_phrases



Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, First Kiss, Fluff, Getting Together, M/M, One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-11
Updated: 2018-09-11
Packaged: 2019-07-10 21:17:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,016
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15957728
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cynosure_phrases/pseuds/cynosure_phrases
Summary: After nearly 10 minutes on internal conflict, I grab the last few scones in the case (the other batch in the oven) and take a seat in the plush, leather armchair adjacent to him.Slowly, his head rises and he gives me a bored look. The redness in his eyes has all but gone, but he still seems overall unsteady. It half stops me from even saying anything, but I push through the bubble and let it pop in my hands. “Do you have someone to talk to?”-Simon's got a regular coming in looking a little worse for wear on a rainy afternoon. Despite their seemingly mutual distaste for one another, they come together over sweet treats and dried tears.





	Just Tell Me Why

**Author's Note:**

> big thank you to jess for super quick goin over this because this idea came to mind roughly 6 hours ago, i got it down in like a total of 3ish hours, and she went over it super fast so bless (her tumblr is @jessethejoyful)

The rain patters outside, a repetitive tapping against the long, paper-covered windows. Adverts, local band posters, cram-session times and business cards close off the shop from most of the outside world, leaving a multicolored, softened haze of light to filter in. Each lamp, each overhead light buzzes in this world, closing us off from the stampering around outside as students rush to one place or another.

 

I hear the chime of the doorbell and the soft shuffling of feet against the straw welcome mat before the steps approach the front. The soft mutter of “Shit” and the droplets of water from a flicked head land on me, turning my attention away from the case as I refill the cookie plates.

 

Oh. _It’s him_. “Basilton,” I hiss with my most forced smile, which only falters as I notice his eyes. Blood red. Oh. His cheeks aren’t wet from the rain, they’re red on their own terms. Great, this bloody prick somehow made me feel bad for him (even if it is in the slightest).

 

He sneers down at me, shaking another hand through his hair as he clearly tries to keep composure. “The usual, will you?”

 

“Yeah, fine. Anything else?”

 

He drags his eyes over the restocked case and I watch him fix his cuffed sleeves. The ends are damp in spots, as if they were moping something up rather than hit by drops. “Unless there’s toffee bars in the back.”

 

If he didn’t come in looking as depressing as he does, I would’ve just said no and left it at that, but I know for a fact that there’s some that are still cooling (even though they’re not set enough to really sell). I hesitate, looking up to meet his eyes. They tear away from mine. “Yeah, actually, there are. One or two?”

 

“Tw—one. One.”

 

“Riiigghhhttt… I’ll grab two.”

 

He sends a glare over my way, but straightens himself out again. “Fine.” His hand reaches into the inside breast of his jacket, digging in for his wallet as I raise a hand, grabbing my own out of my back pocket.

 

“I’ve got it,” I say sternly, not leaving wiggle room for him to protest.

 

He simply clears his throat, head turning away as his throat clears. I’m sure he won’t give me a thank you, but his off-turned nod is quite enough before he heads off to take a seat in the far corner, opening his messenger bag and pulling out a laptop.

 

The harsh blue of the screen illuminates his face. The only other light near him is a table-lamp on the other side of the sofa, and it’s the dimmest one in the whole shop.

 

Sometimes, whenever Penny comes in to sit at the bar and bother me, she comments on how he looks like this.

 

 _“He’s so angular,”_ she’d whisper, narrowing eyes as she stared blatantly. He didn’t seem to notice. _“Looks like Dracula’s nephew.”_ This is, though, after I’d blabbered to her for at least an hour or two the night before about how I catch him staring at me. She thinks I’m being ridiculous about all this. “ _He stares at me, Penny, like without moving his head and just lifting his eyes oh dear god he’s plotting some shit, and I saw the way he watches Agatha whenever she’d come in and we’d steal a kiss on my break and Christ, Penny, he’s going to pull some shit have you seen how ridiculously handsome he is fuck him.”_

 

Two things were decided that night. 1) How much wine is too much wine for me, and 2) We have a “Baz-cap”, or a cap to how much we talk about Mr. Coffee-Shop.

 

That was, of course, until we saw him off taking Agatha’s hand right before an exam, talking to her by a bathroom carve-out.

 

That cut it. Agatha broke it--the whole relationship thing--off with me, and I went from having a bitter spat with him each time he’d come in to barely dealing with him, if I can help it.

 

Except now, I suppose.

 

He looks down at his laptop screen, lips drawn to a tight line as he clacks away. I take notice that in pauses between words, his fingers hesitate and tremble in the slightest. He swallows sharply, blinking so much that he can’t not be crying.

 

 _Well, shit._ I put together his frankly overly sweet order of some latte with six pumps of butterscotch, pushing through the swinging door to the back and getting a plate together of two toffee-bars (throwing on a vanilla bean cake-pop because, for some reason, I briefly care).

 

Swiftly, I take hold of his drink and bring it over to him with a slight yet genuine smile.

 

There’s a gentle clink of the plate hitting the plastic bowl on the table as I set it down, followed by the gentle swishing sound of his egregiously pre-diabetic drink as I rest it beside his food. He glances up at me, then down to the plate before dragging his eyes back to mine. “You seemed to have left something extra there.”

 

“I know I did. Seemed like you needed it.”

 

He scoffs quietly, the sound dragging through the back of his throat. “Is this why people gravitate towards you, Snow?” he grumbles half-heartedly, picking up one of the bars and a napkin. It dips a bit in the middle, still obviously a little too fresh. He doesn’t seem to mind. “Your hero complex?”

 

“I don’t have a hero complex. I just like being nice, you should try it.”

 

He makes the sound again, biting into the treat. I watch as he chews slowly, dragging his eyes up to mine. He swallows all showily. “Should I? I’ve gotten far enough without it.”

 

“Yeah, you should. It’ll get you your own girlfriend instead of havin’ to creep up on someone else’s,” I mumble back, leaning down to clean the discarded dishes beside him and giving it a good once over with my rag. He stares at me, and I swear I can hear him laughing.

 

Scratch that, he is laughing, somewhat a bitter twinge to his voice. I force my head up, eyebrows knit together in frustration. “Oh fuck yo—“

 

“You think I want your girlfriend, Snow?”

 

“You can already have her, tosser.”

 

“I don’t want her.”

 

I stare at him, and I catch him staring back. His laugh has far gone and disappeared into a slightly lowering brow and drawn in lips. His eyes scan around my face, the space between us all static-y. “Alright…” I draw, completely unconvinced. “Then what the hell happened last year?”

 

“She came onto me, Snow,” he says flatly. “It’s not my fault your girlfriend likes me better.”

 

Something inside stops me from spitting on him and calling him a prick. It’s the same part of me that actually cared that this arse came in crying. “ _Ex_. She’s my ex, now.”

 

His brow arches, like it usually does when I tell him off, but it doesn’t have the energy of me about to be punched in the face. Instead, he’s inquisitive. “Oh. Ex?”

 

“Ex,” I sigh, pausing for a second. “Why don’t you want her? Everyone wants her.”

 

“Not my type,” he replies, a little too quickly.

 

I think he notices this too, because for the first time in minutes he drags his gaze back to his computer screen, finishing his thoughts as he types. “Doesn’t matter. I’m not after her, Snow. Don’t let me stop you from your… fantasy world, _hero._ ”

 

The way he punctuates the end makes me bite my tongue again, holding the words trying to urge out as I clean the surrounding tables and take back the cups.

 

The clock ticks on as I fill the dishes into the sink. The café’s closed in four hours, and each time I peer out, it seems to still be dead silent. I stop, occasionally, to serve a customer.

 

The outside world darkens, drawing into a sunset before sinking back into a world only illuminated by yellowed streetlights. Most people leave, the rain having let up for about 15 minutes and setting a cue for the dining area to clear out.

 

Only a few stay, one of whom is Baz.

 

I chew on my bottom lip, hand floating over the Spotify playlist for the shop. It’s been on “Rainy Day” since before my shift started, so I just scroll down and pick “Simon’s Nightshift” and hit shuffle. It starts echoing out as I turn to keep cleaning and just standing for a time, taking out a book to try to read. It doesn’t last, and I clean around as mostly everyone trickles out of the shop slowly.

 

As the rain fully picks back up to a roll, it’s just Baz and I left inside.

 

After nearly 10 minutes on internal conflict, I grab the last few scones in the case (the other batch in the oven) and take a seat in the plush, leather armchair adjacent to him.

 

Slowly, his head rises and he gives me a bored look. The redness in his eyes has all but gone, but he still seems overall unsteady. It half stops me from even saying anything, but I push through the bubble and let it pop in my hands. “Do you have someone to talk to?”

 

He cocks his brow at me again, pursing his lips and clearly thinking over his words (or maybe mine). “Are you asking if I would wish to speak to you about my problems?” he draws, and the way he puts it makes me feel like I’m back as a toddler when the teachers would ask me if I understood English because I was so quiet.

 

The pit of my stomach churns as I forcefully stuff half the scone in my mouth. My stomach doesn’t want it to go down. I force it down anyway. “Yeah, I guess.”

 

He exhales exasperatedly. “What are you, a shrink?”

 

My shoulders shrug up, then sag. “I’m just someone who’s bored at work with nothing better to do. Least I could do is pester you.”

 

The clacking of his keys halts as Baz stares down at his knuckles. They wrap in, then extend once more. I watch as he drums against the surface of the keyboard before shutting the lid. “Okay. Fine. Do you truly want to know?”

 

I nod more encouragingly than I mean. Or, maybe I do mean it and I just don’t really want to admit it, even to myself. That’s what Penny thinks I do, at least; hide stuff from myself.

 

I listen to him sigh as my eyes flicker down to the rest of the scone I’m stuffing in my mouth.

 

Baz rubs his index finger and thumb against his temple as the exhale lengthens. “I can’t believe I’m telling you this of all people,” he mutters under his breath before straightening out and looking me in the eyes. I feel his next exhale. “My mother died years back and while looking through an old textbook of hers for a course, a picture of her and I fell out. It had a message from her on it, and it got to me. There. Happy?”

 

I blink a little, noticing that I still haven’t swallowed yet. I do that before continuing. “Baz…”

 

“Don’t start with the pitying shit, Snow. I don’t want to hear it,” he snaps, looking at his hands deliberately. “I’ve heard it quite enough before.”

 

“No, Baz, I—“

 

“I said to shut it,” he says, voice as hard as an edge as he shoves his laptop into the large pocket of his bag. “Just… forget it.”

 

“Baz?”

 

He sucks in a breath as I lay a hand on his knee, my plate setting on the table as he stares. His eyes transfix on each and every part of my hand, seeming to follow the veins and the scars scattering my weathered knuckles. It takes a moment before his eyes close and I’m nearly positive he’s on the brink of tears. It takes a moment of his mouth flying open before I cut him off this time.

 

“Why did you come here of all places?”

 

There’s a hesitation in his movements, but he keeps his knee in place as his waist shifts to face me more before opening his eyes. “What does it matter to you? This is very atypical of you, either way, not telling me to piss off.”

 

“Christ, Baz, I’m not heartless, especially when someone’s crying.” My voice lowers as I shift, the leather of my seat squeaking. “Plus, if you’re not swooping in to snag my girlfriend—or ex, but that doesn’t matter—fuck it, why did you go along with the fighting?”

 

He seems taken aback by my conversation shift, but his knee draws in and sends my hand back to my lap. “Does it matter?”

 

I shrug, hands laying together in my lap and playing a bit with twiddling thumbs and an anxious tug at my heart. _Why does it matter so much?_ “Guess not. I just… I dunno, don’t like the fighting?”

 

“So you suggest we forgo the bitterness?”

 

“I mean, that’s what we’re doing right now, innit?”

 

He glances to meet my eyes and takes a second. “I suppose we are.”

 

I smile a little, sitting up straighter with a growing grin. “Good, glad that’s settled.” I pause before saying what else is on my mind, but the timer for the oven beeps and I launch myself up and run over to pull everything out.

 

By the way Baz was packing, I expect the couch to be empty by the time I return, but instead he’s sitting there with his phone by his face, thumbs in a pattern of scrolling. I bite my lip, hesitating before leaning over the counter and giving him a smile. “Oi,” I whisper, a twinkle in my eyes as he glances up to me, hair falling in soft waves against the sharp angles of his face. It makes my heart race a little more than I’d care to admit. “You want something absolutely _amazing?"_

 

“Is this a friendly offer?”

 

“This is a peace treaty, now, will you take it?”

 

“I suppose,” he mulls, the click of his iPhone sounding over the soft thump of the music. “What is it?”

 

“Fresh scones.”

 

He blinks. “What’s so amazing about them?”

 

I pout a little, taking one over and sitting directly next to him this time. “Just… taste it. It’s so much better like this; fresh from the oven.” I pry open his hand, pressing one onto his palm and watching him happily. I nearly swear I see him smile. “Well then? Go on, eat it.”

 

His hand slowly raises to his lips, taking a bite and chewing slowly. “I swear, you’re trying to fatten me up tonight,” he grumbles before swallowing, but I don’t see him complain as he goes for another bite.

 

A soft, pleased sigh lets out of my nose as I sit back against the armrest, grinning. I wait until he finishes before letting myself finish my thought from before I broke the moment. “Why the hell do you stare at me?” I ask, crossing my arms over my chest.

 

“Because you’re a trainwreck, and I can never look away,” he quips, but any malicious intent slides right past him.

 

“Is that really it?” I dare, pressing him further. “Because I wouldn’t come right here if my I found my mum’s left note.”

 

“Yeah, well, you don’t have a dead mum, do you?”

 

“I don’t know,” I say flatly, shrugging. “I don’t know my mum. I grew up in the system.”

 

He blinks, narrowing his eyebrows for a moment before letting it slip off. “Interesting.”

 

I stop myself from making any comment beyond that, chewing on my lip. “I want to know, though,” I say quieter than before, “why you’d come here. Why you came here so much even though we had a big tiff. Why you stare at me.”

 

Baz’s eyes don’t look up as he chews on his last bite of scone, staring right through the chairs across the room. “Move past that, Snow.”

 

“Why?”

 

“You don’t want the answer.”

 

“Maybe I do.”

 

He pauses mid chew, freezing for seconds before swallowing and turning his head to look at me, sitting all curled up to myself and pressed up against the arm. He looks so unsure; fuck, no, he looks scared. He starts shifting in his seat, glancing around like a cornered animal trying to find an exit. “Snow…”

 

Something about the tremble in his hand floors me and, honestly, I can’t give an explanation for what follows. It’s like my brain shuts off between then and now, with my lips pressed up against Baz’s.

 

My hand’s wrapped tightly around the previously shaking hand, trying to steady them as my lips press a tad forcefully against his and I can swear he’ll recoil and slam a fist into my nose, but something in him softens for a split second as I decide to pull back. His eyes, moments before open, are now shut, and mouth open in the slightest.

 

Oh, fuck it.

 

I lean my head back in, and this time, his hand flies up to brush against my cheek as he finally kisses back and my heart is pounding against my ribcage, telling me that this, _this_ is the answer I was looking for.

 

He tastes like all the sweets he packs into himself; he tastes like the sour cherry scone I’d forced onto him. He tastes like everything I’ve wanted from him.

 

After every bit I take from his mouth, after minutes that feel like an eternity, he lets back and watches me through heavily lidded eyes and breathes through parted, shining lips. “How long ‘til closing?”

 

My eyes dart up to the clock, but something in my chest tugs. I bet Ebb wouldn’t mind if I closed a tad early because the weather… “Fuck it, right now,” I whisper back, going in for another kiss.

**Author's Note:**

> hey, if you're wondering, here's Simon's Nightshift playlist! https://open.spotify.com/playlist/4J5x8cnfJA0QD1M2lmfnaA it's mostly just soft alt bops that i'd imagine would fit simon/a coffee shop; enjoy!


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